by Jeff Chapman
“What the hell was that for?” Hank stood tall as he turned, the spell broken. The bucket landed with a splash in the shallows.
“Look.” Tom pointed at the creature at Hank’s feet.
The beast flicked its tail and Hank went down before he could cry out. His back hit the surface in a spray of white water that reached up the bank to Tom’s feet. Hank’s head went under then bobbed on the surface, above and below. He sucked in water and air, sputtering and hacking as the beast dragged him. He grasped at stones, but the rounded rocks, slick with moss, eluded his grip. Others tumbled with him, rolled with the current toward the pit with no bottom.
Tom didn’t think. One acts or stares or runs when confronted with terror, and whatever held him steady before now propelled him into the purling water. He leaped from the sloping bank to the granite disk, felt the gouges in the carved stone under his toes, and flew over the creek like an angel with outstretched arms. He touched Hank’s elbow as he hit the water. Hank slipped away but not before Tom cinched his fingers around Hank’s wrist.
The beast jerked them downstream. Water piled around Tom’s mouth and nose as his body plowed through the creek, his deadweight adding no hindrance to the beast. Hank thrashed his free arm and bucked to raise his head and gasp some air. Tom pressed his knees into the stony creek bed, searching for leverage, all the while keeping his tenuous grip on Hank’s wrist, but the beast pulled him off balance with each flick of its tail, plunging Tom’s face into the chilly water. The knees of his trousers ripped and his skin tore as it scraped along the stones. A red slick of blood ebbing from Hank’s ankles drifted in the current. As he struggled to gauge the distance to the Well, Tom saw the feelers for what they were, tentacles armed with bony, serrated edges.
Hank’s fingers wrapped Tom’s wrist, compressing flesh against bone, as a blue shadow beneath the water yawned ahead of them. They would die or live together and the thought threw Tom into a panicked frenzy of kicking and swinging as the beast jerked him beneath the water again and again.
His flailing hand caught the sharp edge of a rock. Nothing more than luck. He braced his forearm against the flat surface and when the beast pulled, Tom kept his face above the surface. He sucked in a breath and dug his knees between stones.
The beast pulled in short jerks. Tom’s arms ached. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes against the pain that shot through his shoulders as the bones strained in their sockets.
Some screams originate only in terror, others only in pain. Hank’s bore the marks of both and his cry echoed through the valley, ricocheting off the ridges. Hank’s arm went slack as the body lurched into Tom. Blood trailed from Hank’s feet and then sank into Sutter’s Well. Whatever had held Hank was gone. Tom scrambled up the bank, dragging Hank behind him. Hank coughed and spit up water that dripped off his chin.
Tom called his friend’s name. Hank’s eyes fluttered open and then snapped shut as another round of coughs racked his chest and water gushed from his mouth and nose. Tom turned Hank on his side. He pried Hank’s cold fingers loose from around his wrist and found a blue and purple bruise in the shape of four fingers and a thumb. His hand tingled as numbness gave way to pain.
“We got away, Hank. We got away.” Hank groaned and coughed, weakly at first, but then stronger as the coughs came from a deeper recess. Tom glanced at Hank’s feet and turned away at once. The boy who had seen hogs butchered and deer gutted wretched his grits into a clump of knee-high grass. Strips of flesh clung to the white bones of Hank’s feet and ankles.
A few drops of rain spotted the back of Tom’s neck. He coughed and spat the bile from his mouth. He had to hurry before the trail over the ridge disintegrated to slick mud.
~~~
“Was right there,” said Tom. He stood at the water’s edge, pointing at the gray stones in the creek bed. He resisted the urge to wade into the water and move the loose stones covering what he knew lay beneath. Fear anchored him to the land.
The Sheriff rubbed his chin and fanned his face with his hat. Sweat beaded on his forehead and gathered above his eyebrows. His paunch hung over his belt.
“People been fishin’ here for years, boy, and ain’t no one seen any rocks with writing.”
“That thing must have covered it over.” He shuddered, imagining those feelers shifting the rocks to cover its trap.
The Sheriff frowned, replaced his hat, straightened it. “I don’t know what you saw, but it ain’t here now. I think Hank got his feet wedged under some sharp rocks and you pulled him out. That was a good thing you did carrying him over the mountain.”
“And why won’t he talk no more?”
The Sheriff squeezed Tom’s shoulder. “Let it go, boy.” The Sheriff sauntered upstream, making for the trailhead.
Tom walked downstream, training a wary eye on the purling water. The blue pit yawned below him or was it an eye that watched him. The edges were shadowed, indistinct, black bleeding into gray but definitely circular, like the granite disk. A dead leaf—brown and stiff—borne atop the current, passed over the dark circle, spun around an eddy and then disappeared over a ledge of falling water.
Jump. Tom turned back to the pit. Something called, insinuating the idea of jumping into his conscious thoughts. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself leaping up and over and into the Well. Jump. He felt the voice, like the rumble of blasting in the mountain, shaking through his legs and rattling up his spine. He felt its weight, like the joists in the porch scratching his shoulder blades, like the heat in August oppressing him, pinning him down. His feet shuffled toward the edge. Something watched him from the Well. Something held his gaze that he couldn’t see through the shadowed water. Jump.
“Tom!” A muffled voice from far away called his name. “Boy!” The Sheriff grabbed Tom’s shoulder. Tom shivered to his core. “You get any closer and you’re gonna fall in. Come on.”
Tom fell in behind the Sheriff. He watched the Well over his shoulder, expecting a ripple on the surface from the beast’s mottled back. He watched until the trees closed in and hid the creek from view. Never again, he told himself. I’m not going there ever again. Something old lived down Sutter’s Well. Something ancient.
Morphine and Chocolate
“I’m going to look for Pearl,” he said.
“At this hour?” his wife asked.
“I heard about a guy who might know something. A Mr. Dire. The guy who runs the diner knows him.”
She stared at her husband, shaking her head. “That’s a fool’s errand, Abram. And you know it.”
Abram let the screen door slam, not resigned to the worst, not until he saw it. He walked downtown in the summer’s dusk, trampling weeds in the cracks of the broken sidewalk. Trees thick with decades arched over his path. He remembered when Pearl rode in her red wagon beneath those trees to the ice cream shop. She wanted bubblegum ice cream, always, all pink and sugary. One day she said she could walk there like a big girl and then one day he could not recall their last trip. He remembered the day she learned to ride a bicycle, when he let go of the seat and she rode away from him on her own, screaming with excitement but too inexperienced to use her brakes. She turned into a yard and crashed in a patch of pachysandra. He remembered taking her to school, watching her crowd through the double doors with the others, all suited with brightly colored backpacks. Memories of leave taking, those alone remained crisp, crowding out all others. “I’ve lost my Pearl,” he mumbled.
He stopped beneath a neon sign jutting out over the sidewalk from a two storey brick facade. The white letters spelled The Big Feast Diner, but the letter “e” in the third word flickered on and off so the sign sometimes read The Big Fast Diner. Light spilled from the floor to ceiling windows, casting shadows of parking meters on the vacant street.
The bell over the door chirped. A wave of cool air refreshed him as he made for the counter, striding across the black and white tile floor, past an old man drinking black coffee as he scanned a newspaper, past a young couple—al
l smiles and giggles—crowded together over an enormous chocolate fudge sundae.
A chubby, balding man in a white shirt and apron smiled at him from behind the counter. “Lookin’ for Mr. Dire?”
Abram nodded as he raised himself onto a seat. To his right three identical girls perched on stools. Their platinum blond hair shook in unison when they glanced at him.
He stretched his arms and back, pausing a moment to peek at the girls who wore identical clothes, long-sleeved pink dresses that clung without being obscene. Their pleated skirts reminded him of cheerleader outfits. Darker pink tights covered their legs which ended in pink, high-top tennis shoes. Their hair stopped abruptly at their shoulders and their bangs brushed their eyebrows. They shared a banana split drenched with chocolate sauce.
“The Triplets,” said the Proprietor. “The same but different. Don’t think I’ve ever heard them disagree. That’s gotta make you wonder.”
“Yup.” Abram stuck his elbows on the polished black counter top and massaged his forehead.
“Can I get you something?”
“Maybe a coffee. With some cream.”
“You should try the ice cream,” chorused the Triplets. “The chocolate sauce is divine.” They smiled.
“The ladies don’t lie,” said the Proprietor.
Their unitary behavior unnerved him, as did the Proprietor’s nonchalance. Pink and ice cream triggered the memories, sparking a short circuit in his head, a wall of fuzzy images like so many televisions going bad, their pictures losing sharpness as Pearl faded into the depths of half-remembered dreams.
Don’t dwell on it. Don’t snivel and sob.
He was losing her, a bit more everyday, and nothing filled the void. He carried a school picture in his wallet from years ago, its white edges worn. She was all smiles and hope against some blue, grainy background like granite, like the polished stone of a grave marker.
Abram steadied his voice, which still squeaked. “Just the coffee, please.”
The Proprietor nodded, fixing his lips in a firm line. The Triplets rolled their eyes then huddled together in a cloud of whispers. Abram stirred the cream into his coffee, watching the black fade to muddy amber.
“Here he comes,” announced the Proprietor.
Something banged against the door and screeched, metal against metal. The bell chirped. A rolling squeak built to a crescendo then faded and rolled out again.
Everyone swiveled to the door.
Crouched in a narrow wooden box mounted on a hospital gurney, a man pushed his way into the diner, using a crutch as one paddles a canoe. Black sunglasses hid his eyes. Black, curly locks flared out beneath a red baseball cap worn backwards, and in his mouth he clenched the end of the longest, thickest joint that Abram had ever seen.
Mr. Dire stopped halfway between the door and the counter. He sucked air through his cannabis cigar, which crackled and flared red. Thick white smoke seeped from his lips and nose, like an incense burner, shrouding his face.
“Anyone got an ash tray?” said Mr. Dire.
The Proprietor reminded Mr. Dire of the city ordinance that prohibited smoking in restaurants.
“Oh.” Mr. Dire chuckled. “Forgot.” He tapped his cigar on the edge of the pine box. A clump of ash splattered on a white tile. Other bits floated to the floor like tiny gray snow flakes.
The Triplets wrinkled their noses. The old man returned to his paper and coffee. The young man held his girl’s hand, kissing a green, plastic ring on her finger, something from a cereal box. The young woman giggled. Abram waited for the Proprietor to make an introduction but none came.
Mr. Dire took another drag on his cannabis. “I hear somebody lost something.” Puffs of smoke accented each word, hanging between Mr. Dire and Abram.
“I did. I’ve lost my Pearl.”
“Well, I’m good—” Mr. Dire’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Good at finding lost things.” His voice trailed to a raspy gurgle. He coughed, deep and wet, then spat black phlegm on the floor.
The Triplets turned away. Abram felt his stomach lurch.
“Now I’ve got to clean that up,” said the Proprietor. He wheeled a mop and bucket from behind the counter.
Mr. Dire inhaled a long hit. “Come with me and we’ll find your Pearl.”
Abram slid off the stool and took a step toward Mr. Dire and his gurney boat. The nearest Triplet gripped his arm.
“Don’t go,” she said.
“Finding Pearl is all that matters. If I have to go with him to do it, I will.”
“You won’t find what you’re looking for. There’s another path.”
“I’ve tried everything imaginable. Everyone’s given up except me. If she’s out there, God help me, I’ll find her.”
He wrenched his arm from the Triplet. She let him go.
“Climb in,” said Mr. Dire.
Abram stepped on a chair and clambered behind Mr. Dire into the box, a long box that narrowed toward its head and foot, an antique casket.
“You can help push,” said Mr. Dire, handing him a crutch. “But first I gotta get you hooked up.” He reached behind Abram for some plastic tubing attached to an IV bag hanging from a pole mounted on the gurney. Holding his cigar in his mouth, Mr. Dire pushed up Abram’s sleeve and twisted his arm, exposing the green veins on its underside. He tightened his cold grip, steadying the patient.
“What are you doing?” Abram jerked to wrest back his arm, but Mr. Dire’s fingers coiled tighter.
Mr. Dire mumbled behind his cigar. “You’re gonna need this where we’re going. This is gonna hurt but not for long.” He plunged a needle into a vein.
Abram cried out at the sharp jab, then a swell rolled over him, dampening all his pain, washing it away like a sandcastle on a beach under successive waves. He felt Mr. Dire apply tape to his IV, an abstract procedure connected to his consciousness by only the thinnest of threads.
His thoughts snapped back into clarity.
They rolled along an asphalt road cutting straight across a vast scrub plain. Clumps of yellowed grass, gnarled trees, and tumble weeds dotted the land of dry, reddish dirt that faded to black at the horizons. Yellow clouds tinged with amber covered the sky, exploding downward in great billowy spikes, sucking material from yawning clefts, before recoiling as the jutting cloud collapsed. Sepia washed the air like some sulfurous smog. No sound disturbed the land except the squeaking gurney wheel and the crutch paddle tapping the pavement.
“Where are we?” he said.
He startled when Mr. Dire jerked around to face him. A breathing mask covered his nose and mouth with the ever present cannabis cigar stuck in the hole reserved for an oxygen tube. Wispy tentacles of smoke crept from the mask’s edges and slithered across his face and neck.
Mr. Dire put down his crutch, pulled down his mask, and spread his arms, signifying the vast expanse of waste. “The place of lost things.”
“We’ll find Pearl here?”
“She’s just up the road.”
Mr. Dire resumed paddling. Abram joined in with vigor. Each jab and push brought him closer to his little girl. He was going to find Pearl, prove them all wrong. Liquid dripped from the IV bag through the tube to the needle embedded in his arm.
They stopped when the road dead-ended at the edge of a field colored with red poppies.
“There she is,” said Mr. Dire.
Ten paces in front of them, nestled amid the red flowers, stood a blowup doll, naked, its legs splayed. An image of Pearl, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulders, decorated the balloon.
“What?” cried Abram.
“Are you gonna go see her?”
“It’s a blowup sex toy, you jackass.”
“It’s what’s inside.” Mr. Dire fiddled with a tie on the tubing. “Now you’ve got some slack. Go look.”
Abram climbed down to the road, crushing flowers underfoot as he approached the doll. The plastic tether to the IV bag trailed behind him, unwinding. He touched her smiling face, noth
ing more than cold vinyl, an obscene, lifeless duplicate.
“You’ll need this,” said Mr. Dire. He tossed a crutch to Abram. “Press the button by the handle.”
A scythe blade snapped out the side of the crutch.
“Now they can’t see me coming,” shouted Mr. Dire.
Abram jabbed the blow-up doll’s stomach with the scythe. Air gushed out, whining as the doll crumpled over the flowers. He looked askance at Mr. Dire.
“Look, man. Feel around in the legs.”
Abram stuck his hand inside the plastic shell, down one leg and then the other. Something round and hard rolled about. He pinched it between his fingers and brought it out, a smooth, black sphere in his cupped palm.
“See?” Mr. Dire laughed as he spoke. “You found your little pearl.”
Abram hurled the pearl, grunting with the effort. It bounced off Mr. Dire’s chest onto the road and then rolled back into the poppy field. Screaming expletives, he ripped the IV needle from his arm, tearing skin and pulling hair. Blood pulsed from the wound, trailing down his arm. Mr. Dire laughed on and on. Abram charged at him with the scythe and with one stroke severed the man’s head. A fountain of black blood spurted from the decapitated torso. Mr. Dire’s head landed on the road where it wobbled. The cigar still protruded from its mouth, clenched between its teeth.
“It’s a gusher,” cried the head, followed by more laughter.
Abram threw the scythe to the pavement. He cocked one leg back and then kicked the head like a soccer ball. It sailed high, arching over the poppy field.
“Score, score,” shouted the head as it flew.
Abram charged into the poppy field, intending to kick and batter the head to mush. A furrow caught his foot, sending him face first into the dirt and flowers.
He thrashed in the clear light of the diner, the black and white tiles beneath him. When fingers touched his shoulder, he twisted onto his back to find one of the Triplets leaning over him, extending her hand.